


S. J. Gautier is a Loser.

by HellieAce



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Drinking, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, mentions of minor wounds, psychological self harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 03:07:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29271495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HellieAce/pseuds/HellieAce
Summary: In which Sylvain has lost all direction in his life and can't figure out how to cope. Drinking doesn't fix it, but it sure feels better than anything else he can come up with. Except Felix isn't going to stand idly by and watch Sylvain tear himself apart.
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 6
Kudos: 44





	S. J. Gautier is a Loser.

**Author's Note:**

> Oh would you look at that, I'm pulling my typical 'write a thing once every few years for a new fandom.' Yeehaw it's Sylvix time. Ignore the title, i couldn't think of anything besides the draft name for this rip

_ Verdant Rain Moon, 1186. _

Evening sets in over the rubble of Garreg Mach with eerie familiarity. The dying sun behind the cathedral rings the tall spires in heatless flames of red light. It looks too much like the fires that once blazed through the monastery five years ago for Felix’s liking. He’s sure anyone else might find it beautiful, breathtaking even, but as he leans over the railing of the entryway bridge, all he remembers is fighting for his life, and the shame of fleeing back home when all hope seemed lost. 

The clarity of the memory makes his lip curl in annoyance. He’d have stayed and bled his last if given the choice. Too many were left behind to die fruitless death in the first cogs of the war machine. But Sylvain had dragged him up onto his horse, and rode away with the rest of their class. He remembers the savage anger on Dimitri’s face, Ashe’s tearful looks back, the beat of wings above them as Ingrid scouted them safely away from the horror of the battle. Mercedes’ words haunt the memory, her voice low with heartbreak, but doing her best to comfort Annette tucked against her side, comfort them all, really.

_ “It’ll be alright. We’ll survive, and we’ll come back one day. We’ll be ready next time, and we won’t let it all be in vain. We’ll come back, and it’ll be alright.” _

If anyone had asked him then, Felix would have told them it was a stupid thing to say. Garreg Mach was burning, no amount of blood spilled could stop the fires and the boots of soldiers trampling everything underfoot. They wouldn’t be coming back- they’d be fighting a war.

Now though, he supposes Mercedes was right. At least somewhat. They’re back, but at what cost? Felix isn’t certain alright is the term he'd choose. At least now they're nearing what he hopes is the end of this madness. It's barely been a week since they took Fort Merceus, and still, everything is not as bright and cheerful as it once was. No... It’s not the same: Ingrid is quieter, as severe as the empty stands of knightly armor that keep sentinel in the halls. Annette doesn’t chirp her stupid little songs nearly as much, Ashe doesn’t accost him with new books, and Felix even misses Dedue’s cold stares boring into his back. Now the man doesn't look at him with the same distaste, which is probably better, but still. 

All the same, everything has changed, been damaged by time and war. Even Felix has changed beyond his own recognition. Perhaps he's still not over his father's death, perhaps he still hates the title of Lord and Duke. Not that he’ll admit it. Just like he won’t admit seeing Dimitri as a husk of a man tore him up on the inside for months, and sometimes the sight of that imposing figure still unnerves him. Everyone clamors that he's better, cured of the darkness that held him, but Felix can still see the traces of an animal under his skin. Dimitri is moving forward, yes, but he's damaged beyond what a few months could ever hope to heal. They all are. 

But the worst part is Sylvain.

Over the years of fighting back to back in their losing war to hold the Kingdom, he’s watched the somber transformation helplessly. He’s watched the playful shimmer in Sylvain’s eyes darken to something unreadable, and the shameless way Sylvain once flaunted himself gets covered up in the bulky armor of a lancer made for war. There’s still hints of him, but they’re harder and harder to find every day. 

Felix has told Sylvain to clean up his act so many times, and he’s maybe starting to regret it. It’s taken losing that horrible mess to realize maybe he liked it that way. 

_ No... that’s not quite it. _

What he misses isn’t the sloppy flirting, or insatiable skirt-chasing, or the lackadaisical shirking of responsibility. What Felix misses is seeing Sylvain  _ smile. _ Because he doesn’t anymore. Sometimes he quirks his lips in a smirk, or maybe flashes his teeth in a shameless grin, but Sylvain doesn’t  _ smile _ anymore. There’s not an ounce of mirth in them, no passion, no lazy joy either. Even when they celebrate victory after victory, Sylvain's smiles lack conviction. 

The war has been hard on everyone, but Felix thinks Sylvain’s taken it the worst somehow. He supposes it makes sense, Sylvain has never loved violence. He’s not squeamish; the man’s dedicated and brilliant in battle, unflinching as the bite of his lance paints him in blood. But he doesn’t revel in it, or even want to do it at all. 

_ “What’s the point when you could just talk it out? What’s a bunch of senseless killing accomplish besides promising a future full of angry kids growing up wondering why they’re missing parents and siblings?” _

Sylvain had asked him that once, and Felix knew it was rhetorical now, but hadn’t at the time. He’d been bitter enough to answer with a biting tone. Sometimes talking didn’t work. Words were empty, just air on the wind, easily blown away and forgotten. Your enemy couldn’t just forget a blade at their throat.

_ “Wouldn’t you rather deal with a few broken promises and hollow threats thrown your way instead of losing someone you cared about? Maybe if the fighting stopped, Miklan wouldn’t have needed to hate me. Maybe you’d still have Glenn...” _

Felix had snapped at him then. He remembers the harsh way he’d thrown it all right back in Sylvain’s face. Called him stupid, foolish, a lazy coward too afraid to fight for what he believed in- and then he’d stormed off because he couldn’t bear the hurt smile Sylvain had given him.   
  
_ “You’re probably right. I am a coward. Sorry, Fe.” _

That had been more than a year ago, early into their relationship. Well, early in that they had made dating each other official. Given the pair had been inseparable since they could walk, they had to make the distinction of finally being an item. 

Felix sighs, leaning his chin into his palm as he stares out over the yawning abyss below the bridge. He’d never apologized for that, even though he knew he should. But sometimes he feels that's the nature of their relationship. Felix is jagged and unbudging, and so Sylvain bends to all his sharp edges, and forgives him anyway. When Felix thinks about it too long, he knows it’s unfair. 

But he hates dwelling on it. That’s just how they are, that’s just how it is. So he scoffs at the growing darkness, and thinks he really ought to head back to his quarters. The last little flames of the sunset are vanishing behind the cathedral towers, and Felix almost hates the dark of this place more than he does the memory of it burning. 

As he walks back though, his thoughts linger on Sylvain. Particularly that he hasn’t seen him all day. Normally the lancer would have come to collect him by now, prattling on about not being out too late, or overworking himself into the night. Worse, since Rodrigue's death, Sylvain's been even more insistent and following Felix around like a puppy trying to cheer up its master. Not that Felix can’t take care of himself, but Sylvain not fussing over him is  _ weird. _

Deciding he'll look for Sylvain before he turns in, Felix heads to where he's found the lancer as of late: beside the graveyard. It's one of the few places that seemed relatively untouched by the destruction, but he doubts that's why Sylvain lingers there. As far as he knows, there's no one buried there that Sylvain knows, but again, he doubts that's why either. Maybe it's paranoid of him, but Felix worries about losing yet another friend to the call of merciless ghosts. 

Regardless, the graveyard is empty when Felix arrives. He checks it thoroughly, though Sylvain is pretty hard to miss, even in the growing darkness. 

Well, he's zero for nothing on that, and moves on. The dining hall and adjoining entryway are also barren. By now, the rest of his companions have all turned in for the night. But he knows Sylvain tends to wander into the later hours, and still he hasn't run into him. It's starting to get unnerving. Maybe he's actually in his quarters at a responsible hour and Felix is overthinking this. So why does something feel so off? 

Felix is about to leave when he spots a figure towards the back cabinets. His gaze narrows, and he closes in on them. 

The man clearly doesn't realize he's there, Felix is relatively silent as he approaches, and startles at his voice. 

"Has Sylvain been here recently?" 

"Eep! L-lord Fraldarius, you really mustn't sneak up on people in the dead of night," the man gripes, to which Felix ignores. He folds his arms before his chest, and waits for the fellow to get to the point. Miffed as he is, the servant drops his shoulders, and realizes he's not getting an apology for nearly being scared to death by the young Duke.

"Yes, actually. Lord Gautier was here a few hours ago. Though all he did was harass one of my girls into giving him a few bottles of wine."

"Harass?" Felix shifts his weight, looking a mixture of confused and annoyed. For how long he's known Sylvain, he's  _ always  _ being an annoyance to any woman within a mile radius of him. But that description doesn't sit quite right now. He'd ceased most of his antics after he'd started dating Felix. 

"He seemed off," the servant explains and shrugs. "A messy breakup perhaps? I've certainly heard of Lord Gautier's penchant for cavorting about."

"He's taken," is all Felix says before he's storming out the door. He knows exactly what this is, and he'd almost rather it be 'a messy breakup.'"

Nostalgia is a foolish thing, Felix thinks as he makes his way to the old dorms. But it's always been something that's plagued Sylvain, plagued all of Felix's friends really. Those idealized memories, they're always so twisted up from the truth Felix remembers every time they're brought up. Like Ingrid's denial of Glenn's worthless death, like Dimitri's fond memory of a stepmother that never loved him. And now, like all the memories he's sure Sylvain is trying to sift through, hoping the sieve of a drunken haze will catch something he can cling to. 

The hall is empty when Felix ascends the stairs, most of the doors shut for the night. A few have been left open for years, their occupants lost or dead. Felix doesn't dwell on them, he simply walks to the end of the hall where he and Sylvain's rooms are. 

The door isn't locked. It never is. Felix came and went from it so often back then that Sylvain simply didn't bother. Thankfully the habit hasn't changed because he doubts he's supposed to see this and having to fight his way in would have been messy. 

Sylvain is on the floor. His figure slumps against the bed, shoulders sloping forward. Beside him, there's an empty bottle of wine, and another that's broken. Crimson dark liquid seeps into the rug, staining it like blood but Sylvain doesn't seem to notice. Or he doesn't care. A part of Felix wonders if he's even conscious, but discards that as he steps inside. When the door shuts, Sylvain's hand twitches, and balls into a fist. Felix can see the tension bleeding the color out of his knuckles. 

The reek of booze hit him the second he'd spotted Sylvain, but now in the cramped space of the dorm, it's nearly suffocating. He's never cared much for liquor. A glass of wine here and there was the extent of Felix's comfort with drinking. Sylvain, on the other hand... 

Well, Felix knows that even a bottle and half of wine is not nearly enough to have Sylvain looking like this. He must have been drinking in town before stumbling back to the monastery. It also explains the wait staff's comment on Sylvain harassing that woman for more wine. Sober, he'd have at least been polite about it. The wine was likely just to keep the haze, rather than induce it. 

Stepping close, Felix catches a dark, ruddy mark on the corner of Sylvain’s jaw. Even with his head dropped, and shaggy hair hiding most of his face, the bruise is big enough to wince about. 

“You got in a fight,” Felix murmurs, and bends to pick up the still intact bottle. Sylvain doesn’t stop him.

“Yeah.”

“Mm,” Felix doesn’t ask him to elaborate beyond that. He’s got less sympathy for the redhead getting his ass kicked than he probably should, and bites back the retort of  _ ‘if you’d just train more, you’d have better reflexes.’ _

When he doesn’t, Sylvain slumps more... like he’s disappointed Felix isn’t scolding him. 

He knows it’s what Sylvain wants.

Because this isn’t the first time Felix has stumbled upon this scene, and his heart aches realizing it likely won’t be the last. Sylvain’s a physical thing, needy for stimulation and confirmation of his place in the world. He can't always exist on intangible things like ‘it’ll be alright’ or ‘you’ll be okay.’

For all his talk of peace in negotiations, words don’t ever seem to quell the quiet battles Sylvain tries to fight on his own. Felix thinks perhaps that’s why he hates violence so much, because he can’t ever seem to escape it.

So when he loses those battles, Sylvain looks for relief in the material: sex, wandering out late, drinking- 

“S’okay, Fe...” Sylvain slurs, still not looking up. But his hand clumsily reaches for Felix’s when he tries to start picking up the shards of glass from the broken bottle. “Not’ur responsibility.” 

“I don’t mind,” Felix lies. He continues picking up little pieces of glass, and swats away Sylvain’s clumsy hand. His own comes away with flecks of red seeping into the creases of the distal joints. Pushing the pile of glass aside, Felix cups Sylvain’s larger hand in his own, and feels along his palm. There’s a cut that laces the meat of his palm, and a few smaller ones along the underside of his fingers. When the swordsman frowns at them, Sylvain has a strange look on his face: anticipation. 

Once again, Felix disappoints him by staying quiet, and eventually Sylvain relents to an explanation. 

“Got mad... gross, lousy wine. Water’d down to hell.” Maybe that’s the reason he convinced himself of, but Felix can’t help but wonder. Deeper down, he thinks Sylvain was more upset the cheap wine would be less effective in keeping him stupid and lost. 

When he suddenly stands, Sylvain flinches. It’s painful to watch, and Felix has to turn away before he can’t bite his tongue any longer. He goes to the simple wash basin on Sylvain’s desk, and grabs a tea towel along with it. Kneeling beside him again, Felix takes his hand, and begins gently washing out the cuts. 

“Why?” Sylvain mutters, a distressed wobble to his usually confident voice.

“They’ll get infected. You need your hands for battle.” Felix answers so clinically even he inwardly flinches at how cold it sounds. Worse, Sylvain smiles.

“Yeah... y’right.”

“Sylvain-” but Felix doesn’t get further than that. The lancer suddenly yanks his hand away with a violent strength he usually reserves for his enemies. Then that fight is gone again, and Sylvain curls in on himself, drawing his knees up to his chin. 

So Felix stares down at the towel in his hands, the ruddy stains of Sylvain’s blood at the corner, and sighs. 

“Sorry...” it’s muffled. Sylvain has his forehead pressed to one knee, and his arms wrapped around his legs like he can hide from Felix.

“It’s fine.” It’s not, but Felix says it anyway.

“I got in a fight in town...”

“I know.”

"Kicked me out."

"I figured."

“M’drunk...”

“I know.”

“Forgot to come get’chu after training...”

“It’s not a big deal-”

“You’re mad at me...”

“I’m not.” 

That one finally pauses Sylvain’s rambling list. He tilts his head, just enough for Felix to see him peek open one ochre eye. It’s red-rimmed and watery, scuff marks from where he’s rubbed at it just above the curve of his cheek. He holds Felix’s gaze for a long moment, searching for something that isn’t there, and then looks away again.

“Y’should be,” he mutters into the crook of his elbow.

Felix thinks,  _ yes, he should, _ but at the same time, his heart can’t follow his head there. Sylvain doesn’t do this to hurt anyone but himself, and Felix refuses to play along with that self-destructive game.

“What did it?” Felix asks, and seats himself a little closer to the lancer. The tension Sylvain holds in his body seems to amplify when their shoulders brush, then relax again. 

“The booze.”

“No, you idiot, I meant-” Felix clenches his jaw tight, and stops himself there. It’s reflexive to just say what he thinks, never mind anyone’s feelings on that matter. “Sorry...”

“S’alright. Was bein’ stupid.” They slip into a quiet lull, and Felix is sure Sylvain is going to keep the suffering to himself through the night. He’s fully ready to sit next to him until the dawn though, and Sylvain just can’t match Felix’s stubbornness even at his lowest point.

“I hate Verdant Rain Moon.”   
  
Felix is nearly half-asleep by the time Sylvain finally speaks, and it takes a moment for the fog in his mind to clear enough to sort that information out. He almost asks why, but then it dawns on him.

“You’re still thinking of Miklan?”

“Kinda hard not to... m’brother.”   
  
“It’s been five years, Sylvain.” The lancer’s jaw tightens, and Felix knows immediately it was a mistake.

“Glenn’s been gone longer.”

Ah, they’re playing this game, aren’t they? Felix has any number of searing retorts for that: Glenn wasn’t a monster. Glenn actually cared about Felix. Glenn never tried to murder him, ditch him in a well, leave him to be eaten by wolves- Glenn never looked Felix in the eye and wanted to carve him apart like a butcher.

It’s hard not to defend himself, to just take a blow and let it slide off him. He wants to claw back, snarl and fight. But he doesn’t. Sylvain’s more important than his pride.

So he tries a new tactic.

“Why do you still miss him?”

Sylvain shrugs. 

“He’s my brother. Grew up together. We’re blood. Everything he did, m’sure he thought I deserved. I ruined his whole life, Fe. Aren’t I supposed to miss ‘im?”

“No.”

“Wh-what?”

“You’re not  _ supposed  _ to do anything when someone dies. Grieving doesn’t have a handbook, Sylvain.”

“But...”

“Do you really miss him?” The answer is so painfully clear to Felix. He’s watched this complex of Sylvain’s grow into a horrible beast for years. Seeing it manifested hurts, but they can’t let it keep eating him alive, or this frequent self-destruction is going to get worse.

“What’dya mean? I said-”

“You don’t miss Miklan; you miss what he did to you.”

He sees the way Sylvain flinches, even sidelong. Beside him, Sylvain’s breath hitches in his throat. So Felix continues.

“You miss the fact he affirmed every little fear you had, all the self-hate you swore you deserved. You’ve changed, you’ve grown, you did everything your brother refused to do, and it scares you. You’re terrified no one’s gonna hate you the way you hate yourself.”

Felix leans on him, cheek pressing to Sylvain’s shoulder. The lancer shakes beneath him, and his chest tightens with the guilt of having to cut the beast’s throat. 

“Every year, the memories get farther and farther away, don’t they?”

Sylvain nods, but doesn’t speak.

“And everyday, less and less people are there to hate you.”

Again, he nods.

“Sylvain... you’re an idiot,” he mumbles it almost fondly, and presses closer to his boyfriend. 

“I know,” the redhead admits, and shifts his arm to wrap it around Felix’s shoulder. “I just... everything has been so,  _ so damn much, _ Fe. My brother, the war, us, everyone... I- I just- I don’t know anymore.”

“It’ll be over soon,” Felix says, and leans his head onto Sylvain’s chest. He ignores the stench of booze in favor of listening to the too-fast patter of Sylvain’s heart, and the way his lungs hitch. They’re not _comforting_ sounds on their own, but they’re _Sylvain._

“And then what?”

“We go home.”

“We’ll be apart again...” 

Felix furrows his brows. Sylvain’s not wrong, they will be. Their respective territories may be neighbors, but the vast expanse of land between them is still an issue. Felix has considered this for ages now, and writhed with the notion he has no idea how to fix it. Especially now that his father is gone, there isn’t hardly an excuse left for him to be at Sylvain’s side in Gautier territory after this war is over. 

“Seeing this all come to ‘n end... I’m scared. Guess Miklan reminded me of that. I’ve changed, and I’m runnin’ out of vices to bleed on. When the war’s done... what am I gonna do, Fe?”

The swordsman tilts his head back, looking up at Sylvain’s hurt expression. The bruise that dapples his cheek is ugly, the tear tracks that smudge his cheeks make it worse. Yet he still finds Sylvain to be the most handsome thing he’s ever laid eyes on, and Felix gently touches his jaw. 

“Thought you’d be happy to see the fighting stop.”

“I did too. But when I’m not fighting, I’m thinking... It’s just not a nice place inside m’head, Fe.”

“You’d rather fight someone else’s battles than your own.”

“Somethin’ like that. Guess ‘cause my battles can’t be won with the fucked up lance that killed my brother.”

“Miklan knew the consequences of what he did.”

“And he still thought that was better than coexisting with me... doesn’t that say somethin’ ‘bout me?”

“I think it says more about him.”

“What if I was the monster all along?”

“You’re not.”

“But what if-”

_ “Sylvain.”  _ Felix squirms away from his cozy spot on the lancer’s chest to pick himself up. Sylvain damn near deflates he looks so disappointed when that pleasant warmth leaves, that Felix wants to wiggle right back up to his side. He will, in just a moment, but first he goes over to the desk where he’d procured the wash basin earlier. Tucked amidst the books there is one tome with a very peculiar binding. It’s not written in the Fodlan alphabet, and the binding style is entirely different from its neighbors. 

Bringing it over, Felix wedges it into Sylvain’s lap, and slides back down to sit with him again. The lancer furrows his brows, and traces the gilding on the front.

“My Sreng chronicles?”

“That’s what you’re going to do after the war.”

“I... I am?” Sylvain looks skeptical at best, entirely lost at worst. Felix huffs. He’s clearly going to have to spell this out for Sylvain’s drink-addled brain.

“You want to stop  _ all _ the fighting, don’t you? Not just this war.”   
  
“Well yeah, ‘course I do, but-”

“There’s your goal then. Peace with Sreng.”

“Fe, I don’t think I can-”

“If you’re so busy drafting treaty after treaty, you won’t have time to think about Miklan.” At its simplest level, it’s exactly what Felix does. If he’s always training, always fighting, there’s no time to be left hurting. If he’s always pushing forward, maybe the people he loves will stop going where he can’t save them. It doesn’t always work, but damn if Felix doesn’t try. Maybe it can work for Sylvain too.

“It’s not just Miklan...” Sylvain murmurs, but opens the book anyway. His fingers trace along the finely written script, in a language he only barely grasps. He’d been trying to learn it for years, but getting his hands on teaching books wasn’t exactly easy during the constant duress between Sreng and Guatier territory. 

Felix watches him with a steady gaze, watches Sylvain’s hands shake faintly as he touches over the well-loved pages. 

“What kind of useless monster are you?” Felix barks, again with no real bite. Still, Sylvain startles.

“I... I don’t know.”

“You want to end wars, bring people together, and never pick up the Lance of Ruin again. You cry over the fallen, you lament for all the people you hurt, you’ll throw yourself in the way of any blade that might take your friends away.”

“Fe, I-”

But Felix doesn’t stop. He has that determined look on his face, where his brows are pinched just slightly, and his visage is so severe. That smoldering amber gaze is set right on Sylvain, and the lancer can’t look away.

“You love with all your big, stupid heart, you’re selfless to a fault, you even manage to love a cranky bastard like me-”

“You are  _ very _ cranky,” Sylvain agrees, and the lopsided way his lips quirk makes Felix’s heart stutter. 

“Do you get what I’m saying?”

“No... ’m always confused when you do these backhanded compliments.”

_ “Sylvain.”  _

“Sorry, sorry... explain it for me slowly? M’head kinda hurts.”

“What I’m saying is this: you’re not the monster you think you are. You’re  _ you. _ Just like you aren’t Miklan, and you’re not your father. You don’t have to be the things they wanted, or what you think they wanted. You’re a good man, Sylvain. I just wish you could see that too.”

“That’s... that’s real sweet of you, babe.” The smile Sylvain wears is worn and tired, but for the first time in a long time, it actually reaches his eyes. There’s a little flicker there, and Felix lays his head on Sylvain’s chest before he gets overwhelmed by it. He tucks close, pressing his cold hands to Sylvain’s warm flank.

They’re quiet for a long while, Sylvain idly running his fingers along the knobs of Felix’s spine, and hazily staring down at his book. His vision is too hazy to really read it in earnest, but the familiar lines bring him some comfort. He’s read it dozens upon dozens of times over the years. And he wonders,  _ is that really what a monster does? Pines to know his enemy so that one day he can be their friend? _

“No,” Felix suddenly pipes up, and Sylvain startles. The smaller settles a hand on his chest, smoothing down Sylvain’s front in a soothing gesture, “easy, you were muttering to yourself is all.”

“Y’really don’t think I’m awful?” 

“I think you’re a hopeless idiot that thinks too much for having such a soft head... but no, you’re not awful. I actually quite like you.”

Sylvain hugs him close, leaning his head against Felix’s. Close as they are, Felix can hear his breath catch, and he worries Sylvain might start crying again. Sure enough, a few moments later, Felix can feel tears wet his hair as Sylvain hiccups and hides against him. 

It doesn’t fix everything, in fact, it fixes so very little. Sylvain will carry his guilt like shackles on his wrists for as long as he lives. It’s just the kind of person he is. The ugly beast that claws in his head and whispers how they are the same will probably come back too. But for now, it bleeds, and Felix hopes maybe it will think twice before it haunts his boyfriend again. Regardless, Felix has every intent to hold a knife to it each time it rears its ugly head. He refuses to leave Sylvain alone to the void of his thoughts.

He lets Sylvain cry, lets him hurt and revolt against all the hateful thoughts he turns on himself like daggers. Until the tears run dry, and Felix is left clutching Sylvain's shaking frame in the earliest hours of the dark morning. 

Finally, Sylvain draws in a deep breath, and lets it rattle against his ribs. 

“Thanks, Fe.”

Felix makes an affirmative sound, and gently pats the lancer’s chest. He’s tired and sore from being balled up on the hard floor with Sylvain, but it’s worth it. For all the times Sylvain has been the steady anchor in his world, it feels good to give that comfort back. 

“I’m still sad but... it’s not so terrible with you here.”

“You’re allowed. I already told you, grieving doesn’t have a handbook.”

“Same to you.”

“That’s neither here nor there.”

“Just know when you’re ready, I’ll be here for you too.”

“There you go again, being the most useless monster ever and promising to be there for me. Honestly, you’re horrible at this.”

“Heh, that’s alright. I promise not to get better at it,” Sylvain kisses amidst Felix’s silky hair, and shifts as if to stand. “We should probably get to bed though. It’s late... I think.”

They’re an uncomfortable tangle of cramped legs and sore backs, but eventually they both manage to get to their feet. Sylvain sets  _ The History of Sreng  _ down on his nightstand, starts to toe off his boots. Behind him, Felix finishes cleaning up the broken glass, and nudging it out of the way until they’re both more awake to deal with it. The obvious wine stain is a hopeless endeavor altogether, and he forgoes even caring about it.

By the time he crawls into bed with Sylvain, the first hints of the sun are starting to appear at the horizon line. Felix gives it a disdainful blink out the window, and snuggles down into the warmth that is Sylvain. 

“Let’s sleep in today,” he mumbles. The broad of Sylvain’s hand settles between his shoulder blades, and rubs slow circles against his back. 

“You? Sleep in? I never thought I’d see the day,” the lancer teases, but certainly doesn’t object. 

“Shut up,” Felix barks. He hides the tiniest smile when he feels Sylvain laugh through the deep reverberations in his strong chest. 

“I love you too, babe.” 

“Shush, go to bed.” To his credit, Sylvain seems to obey. His breathing settles, and his body relaxes. Felix is just on the cusp of dozing off when Sylvain’s voice reaches him in a quiet, sincere whisper.

“... Hey, Fe?”

“Mm?”

“Thank you... for everything.”

“That’s my line, idiot...” Felix smiles against the gentle drum of Sylvain’s heart. He wants to tell Sylvain so much: he loves him, he’ll always be there for him, they’ll always be a pair, and that he’ll never give up on healing every self inflicted wound Sylvain manages, but settles on a quiet, “I love you,” and drifts off to sleep. 


End file.
